


If You Were the Last Man on Earth, Book One: Winter

by Seraphtrevs



Series: If You Were the Last Man on Earth [1]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: 10000-30000 words, Alternate Universe, Apocalypse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-24
Updated: 2010-03-24
Packaged: 2017-10-08 07:17:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seraphtrevs/pseuds/Seraphtrevs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a year and a half since the Shanti virus dropped and devastated the planet. After refusing to conduct inhumane experiments in the search for a cure, Mohinder is made into an unwilling test subject by his former colleagues. When Mohinder thinks that things can't get any worse, he is unexpectedly rescued by Sylar, who has plans that include world domination, ultimate power, and domestic bliss. Mohinder isn't sure he's better off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Dubious Rescue, an Improbable Savior, and the Subtle Pleasures of Accurate Time-Keeping

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first book in a three book series.
> 
> Thanks SO MUCH to my beta, marenpaisley - this fic is as much her baby as it is mine.

Mohinder wondered what time it was.

It was something he had never thought about before – how reassuring it was to know the time. Looking at a clock was something that was almost subconscious, something he didn't miss until it was absent. Now, he longed for the neon green of an alarm clock, or soothing tick of a watch, or the sturdy black arms of a clock tower. He also yearned for a calendar or at the very least a bit of paper he could use to mark off the days. Not that he knew when the day began and ended anymore. There wasn't a window in his room.

It was sort of funny, he reflected, how his list of desires had changed since being here. When his former colleagues first imprisoned him, he wanted a great number of things. Firstly, he wanted to escape and, of course, have his revenge. He wanted to save the other people who were being subjected to the same testing (if any of them were still alive). He also wanted to know what progress had been made on the cure because they'd stopped telling him. And he still wanted to save the world.

More than anything, he wanted Matt and Molly back. He wanted to know where their bodies were, at least, so he could mourn them properly. He wondered also when his mother had died, since he didn't have any illusions that she was still alive.

Now, though, he wanted three things: to be released from his restraints (which had been implemented after the third time he'd tried to escape); to have a meal that was not provided by a feeding tube (which had been used since his attempted hunger strike); and to know what bloody time it was.

He'd also like a little conversation every now and then. His caregivers had apparently been instructed not to speak with him. He didn't really know what he'd have to say to any of them anyway (other than "Let me go, you murderous bastards"), but he knew the effect that a complete lack of social interaction could have on a person, and he was fairly certain that he was going insane.

For example, he was now hallucinating that the door to his room was being blasted open, and that Sylar had stepped into the room and was walking towards him.

"Hello, Dr. Suresh," Sylar said, looking down on him. He was dressed in army fatigues.

"_Sylar?_" he said, once he was capable of talking. He must have really snapped the tether this time if Sylar had started to play a major role in his escape fantasies.

"I knew I'd find you here, but I had no idea you'd be on this side of the microscope." Sylar pulled out the IVs they had him hooked up to and helped him up to a sitting position. "Do you think you can stand?" Mohinder nodded and swung his legs over the side of the bed, stood up -- and promptly crashed to the floor. "Apparently not," he said, and Mohinder got the distinct impression that Sylar was laughing at him, which he thought was very rude given the circumstances.

Sylar gathered Mohinder up into his arms and carried him out the door. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been out of his room – weeks, maybe even months. A few bodies lay crumpled on the floor. Before Mohinder had been imprisoned, people in the hospital were only required to wear surgical masks. The bodies he saw all wore full gas masks, making them look less like people and more like swatted flies.

They made it halfway to the elevator before the alarms started to sound. Mohinder cringed violently; the loudest noise he'd heard in a long time was the thud of footprints. Sylar stopped for a moment and made a small motion with his head. There was a loud crashing sound, and then the alarm stopped. At least, it stopped on the floor they were on. He could still hear the faint echo of ringing in the distance.

"Is that better?" Sylar asked. Mohinder nodded. The Sylar of his imagination was surprisingly courteous.

Another body lay slumped by the elevator. There was a large splatter of blood a few feet above it; it appeared that the person had been thrown violently against the wall before crumpling to the floor. A walkie-talkie lay in one half-curled hand. Sylar made a slight movement with his head, and the walkie-talkie floated upwards.

"He's making his way towards the elevator!" Sylar said into the device, affecting a panicked tone. "He's – oh god, no!" And then the walkie-talkie went flying into the wall. He smiled down at Mohinder. "We should probably wait a few minutes to let them get themselves together," he said.

"Why?" Mohinder asked.

"Because it will be easier to take them all out if they're all in one place," Sylar said, as if it were obvious.

"This hallucination is unusually detailed," Mohinder said.

Sylar raised an eyebrow. "And what makes you think this is a hallucination?"

"Well, you're dead. Or you ought to be. Everyone else is. Well, nearly everyone." Mohinder frowned, trying to bring his scattered thoughts together. "Wait. You did have an infusion of my blood. Maybe you are alive, somewhere."

"I _am_ alive, Mohinder," he said. "And I'm right here."

Mohinder laughed weakly. "And why would you be rescuing me? What possible motivation would you have? No, this is most definitely not happening."

"All right, if that's the case – why are you imagining me rescuing you? Could it be that, somewhere deep within your heart of hearts, you miss me?"

That set Mohinder off laughing even harder. "Oh yes, I'm sure that's it. My serial killer in shining armor."

Sylar shushed Mohinder and cocked his head. "Sounds like our welcome party has assembled itself. It's time to go." He pushed the elevator button, and as soon as the door opened, stepped inside.

It was a quick trip to the ground floor, and unsurprisingly, a squad of about ten soldiers was waiting for them. They were all wearing gas masks.

"He's got Suresh, hold your fire!" one of them said. It was impossible to determine whom.

The man at the head of the squadron slowly started to move towards them, keeping his rifle trained on Sylar. "All right, son, I don't know who you are and I don't much care to," he said. "The man you're holding is humanity's last, best hope for a cure, but I'm sure you know that."

"I didn't, actually," Sylar said. He looked down at Mohinder. "Is that true?"

"It might be," Mohinder said. "Guinea pigs generally aren't kept in the loop as to how the experiments are progressing." He felt dizzy; was this a hallucination after all? It seemed too vivid.

"We don't want to hurt you, but we can't allow you to take him," the man said as if he hadn't been interrupted. He continued his slow progress towards them, never letting his gun waver for an instant. "You're out-numbered, out-gunned, and cornered. It's over. So just put him down, and put your hands on your head where I can see them."

Sylar winked at Mohinder, and then raised his hands. Mohinder remained hovering in the air.

The man lowered his weapon in surprise. "What the – " Sylar made a little motion with his finger and the man went flying back, crashing into the others. Sylar stepped in front of Mohinder's floating body and made his way slowly towards them. Some of the men recovered quickly and raised their weapons again. One of them shouted, "We've got a special here – repeat, we have a special here!" A gun was fired. The bullets froze in midair in front of Sylar and then flew back towards them. One of the men shouted and crashed to the floor. The others rushed towards them, but then fell back as if they'd run into an invisible wall.

In the confusion, one of the men dropped his gun. It slowly started to rise, and then turned on the men and began firing rapidly. Two more of the men went down; the others retreated. Sylar put his arms under Mohinder and released his telekinetic hold. He kept the gun floating ahead of them as he walked out of the building. Mohinder squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want to see anyone else die. The sounds of their screams were bad enough.

He didn't open his eyes until he felt the warmth of the sun on his face. The brightness of it made it difficult for him to see clearly; the first thing he could make sense of was the black outline of Sylar's silhouette against the sun like an eclipse. Sylar let go of Mohinder for a moment and left him floating in the air. He held his hand up. A bright orange sphere flickered into existence in the palm of his hand. Once it had grown to about the size of a grapefruit, he lobbed it at the building as if he were throwing a baseball. It crashed into the building, causing a good portion of it to explode. The rest quickly caught fire.

Sylar turned back to Mohinder and carried him over to a large vehicle that was parked outside the building. He opened the passenger's side door and started to put Mohinder in, but Mohinder managed to squirm his way out of Sylar's grip.

"Wait, let me down."

Sylar raised an overgrown eyebrow, but complied. "Do you really want to stay here? Don't you think you'd be better off taking your chances with me?"

Mohinder shook his head. "No, it isn't that. I just need to know something before we leave."

"Ask away."

Mohinder stood there for a moment, swaying unsteadily. He squinted at the smoking remains of the building he'd been imprisoned in. "What time is it?"

Sylar blinked, then looked at his watch. "It's one thirty-two pm and twenty-eight seconds."

Mohinder sighed in satisfaction. "_Thank_ you," he said, before passing out.

******

He woke up with a terrible headache. The pain made it difficult to make out his surroundings. The first thing he became aware of was that his face was resting on a cool pane of glass. He then surmised that he was in a vehicle of some sort – a hummer, by the looks of it. And after a moment, he realized that the vehicle was being driven by Sylar.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, Dr. Suresh," Sylar said with a smile.

Panic gripped him, and he tried frantically to open the door, which was, of course, locked.

"That's probably not a good idea. We're traveling at seventy miles an hour."

"Where am I? What's happened?"

"Don't you remember?" Sylar said. "I rescued you."

Mohinder did remember. He just didn't think that any of it had been real. "Are you going to kill me?" he asked, biting back his panic.

"Why would I go through the trouble of rescuing you if I was going to kill you?"

"You're a psychotic killer – I don't pretend to understand any of your motivations."

Sylar glared at him. "If you thought I was going to hurt you, then why did you agree to come with me?"

"I only agreed to go with you because I thought I was hallucinating," he snapped.

"I don't think I like your tone, doctor." Sylar's voice had become deep and threatening. Mohinder cringed so hard that he hit his head on the window. "Oh, don't look at me like that," he said, his tone conversational again. "I said I wasn't going to hurt you. I've forgiven you."

"Forgiven me," Mohinder said.

"Yes. For torturing me, and trying to kill me. And for your betrayal." He gave Mohinder what he guessed was supposed to be a reassuring pat on the leg. "There's been a lot of bad blood between us, but we're going to have to leave all that unpleasantness behind us if we're going to move forward together."

"'Unpleasantness?' Is that how you think of my father's murder – as something _unpleasant_?"

Sylar rolled his eyes. "Here we go again."

"What do you mean 'Here we go again?' You killed my father!"

"Because he betrayed me!" They stared at each other for a tense moment, then Sylar sighed and turned his gaze back on the road. "I knew this would happen. This is so typical of us -- always the same argument."

"'Us?'" Mohinder sputtered. "There is no 'us.' And this isn't an argument -- an argument suggests that we disagree about something, which we don't, because we both know that you. Killed. My. Father."

"See? Like a broken record. 'Oh Sylar, you killed my faaaaaahther.' 'Oh, Sylar, I've got to finish my faaaahther's research.' Give it a rest."

Mohinder gaped at him. "Are you – are you mocking me for being upset that you killed my father?"

"Come on, Mohinder, it was like two years ago. Don't you think it's time you moved on?"

"I – but – you – _you killed my father_!" Mohinder was horrified to realize that his voice had become a hysterical screech.

Sylar made a little circle motion with his finger. "Like a record. I mean, _my_ mother was murdered, and you don't see me going on and on about it."

"Wait - your mother was murdered?" Mohinder said. He wondered if that had anything to do with why Sylar was the way he was. "Who killed her?"

Sylar shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Well, I did. But it was an accident. And the important thing is that I haven't let it define my whole life."

Mohinder opened his mouth, then shut it. He stared out the window, utterly bewildered, and wondered what to do. Escape was obviously impossible at the moment; not only was he in a hummer traveling at a high speed, but he was also dressed in a hospital gown, wrapped in a blanket (well, two blankets – Sylar had apparently wrapped him in a large army blanket on top of the hospital one), and had no shoes. He also still felt incredibly weak, a feeling which actually seemed to increase the longer he was conscious. That couldn't be a good sign.

They rode on in silence. After a little while, Mohinder asked, "What time is it?"

"Six fifteen pm and seventeen seconds." Sylar looked at him. "So why were you an experiment-ee rather than an experimenter? I remember that before the media collapsed, the papers said you were spearheading the search for a cure."

"I was, at first." Mohinder looked down at his hands. A small wound on the back of his hand from where Sylar had ripped out the IV had started to scab over. "When the virus broke out, I contacted the CDC. They were a bit skeptical about my claims at first, but once the death toll began to rise, they set me up as head of their research team. The CDC began to collaborate with the Army, and we were moved to Fort Leonard Wood, since it was the home of the Chemical Defense Training Facility. Which you just destroyed, incidentally."

"Don't be melodramatic," Sylar said. "The base is huge; I only destroyed one building."

Mohinder ignored him. "I was so hopeful, at first. I thought that with my blood and Claire Bennet's, we'd be able to synthesize a cure or a vaccine. But Claire had disappeared, and we couldn't locate anyone with the same ability. I'm sure that there were others with some sort of regenerative ability – well, there probably are still, since anyone who could regenerate like she could would likely survive this, but with the country in such chaos, locating such a person was impossible despite our best attempts.

"They put our team into isolation to protect us as we worked, and as things got bleaker, some of the public tried to break in. Molly was killed then. She had survived the first outbreak; we think it was because she had been infected previously, even though it was with a different strain. It was so chaotic; one minute I was holding her, and the next she had fallen, and the mob came between us, and then –" Mohinder stopped. He took a deep breath in and let it out in a shudder.

"Matt – that's Matthew Parkman, I'm sure you remember him from the time you shot him – had died in the initial outbreak, before I took Molly to the base. He lived – "

"Wait a minute," Sylar said. "I never shot anyone."

"In Kirby Plaza, Matt shot at you and you turned his bullets back against him."

"Oh yeah, that guy. He had tried to shoot me before, you know. It was strictly self defense on my part."

Mohinder glared at Sylar. "As I was saying – he lived for two weeks after being infected. I still don't know what happened to his body. Maya only lasted a matter of days." Mohinder hadn't known Maya for very long, but he had felt a kinship with her since they had both lost a family member to Sylar and had both been similarly deceived. Maya had been so consumed with guilt and grief that she had seemed almost glad when she became ill. She said it was God's will that she died of plague, since she had infected so many others with her ability. She said she was not sad, because she would be with her brother soon. Her death was the most peaceful of all the deaths (and there were many) that Mohinder had witnessed.

Mohinder's fists clenched. The wound on the back of his hand broke open. He searched Sylar's face for a trace of regret or remorse. There was none.

"So your friends died. What happened after that?" Sylar said.

Mohinder swallowed, took a deep breath, and continued. "We weren't getting anywhere. The death toll was increasing exponentially; 93% of the population had died in only a year after the initial outbreak. The fact that the disease was so virulent and spread so quickly made my colleagues panic. They started new experiments. On human beings. On _survivors_. These people had contracted the virus and survived against all odds, only to be tortured and killed for 'the greater good.' I refused to be a part of it. But my blood has special properties, as you know, so they added me to their test subjects."

"How long did this go on?" Sylar asked.

"I don't know. Time was a little difficult to keep track of." _To say the least_, he thought. He looked out the window; the trees were bare. The last time he'd been outside, the trees had been lush with leaves. "Seven or eight months, maybe."

They rode on in silence for awhile. "Did you kill them all?" Mohinder asked finally.

"Only the ones who got in my way," Sylar said.

A fierce, ugly part of Mohinder thought, _Good_, but it was only for a moment. "You do realize that you've effectively doomed humanity to extinction on the North American continent?"

Sylar actually smiled. "No, I haven't. In fact, I'm going to save it."

Mohinder stared at him. "And how, precisely, do you figure that?"

Sylar sat back in his seat and steered the hummer with one lazy hand. When he spoke, it seemed like something he'd rehearsed beforehand. "Have you ever heard of the Toba catastrophe theory?" Mohinder shook his head. "Basically, it theorizes that about 75,000 years ago, a super volcanic event occurred at Lake Toba in Indonesia. This event reduced the human population of the world to about 10,000 individuals. So that means all of humanity – all of the progress we've made, the technology we've produced, the forces of nature we've conquered – stemmed from 10,000 people.

"Now let's say this virus kills off 99.9% of the population. That still leaves six million people on the planet. And the population of North America, before the Shanti virus, was about 307 million. So we have 307,000 lost souls in this country right now. People who might be the only survivors of their little town, or a group of a dozen people that are all that's left of a metropolis. I can hear them, Mohinder. They need me to guide them. To shape the future of the human species."

"So what exactly are you proposing? That we travel the country gathering survivors so you can create a society you can rule over like some sort of demigod?"

Sylar quirked his eyebrows. "What do you think?"

"I think you're insane. I wouldn't help you with anything, even if you were –"

"– the last man on earth?" Sylar grinned.

Mohinder snapped his mouth shut and glared.

"You don't get it, do you, doctor? This virus has cleansed humanity of its excess baggage. It has wiped out those who aren't fit. And you're immune to it. Don't you understand how that makes you special? That you are superior to all of the dead? Not as superior as me, of course," he was quick to add. "But still. Different. Special. I told you in the beginning, when we first met, that we were destined to find those with special abilities. Do you remember?"

"You mean when you impersonated a man you killed to gain my trust?" Mohinder felt increasingly out of control of this conversation, but his attempts to derail it apparently failed, because Sylar continued as if he hadn't said anything.

"I was wrong, doctor. That wasn't our destiny. I've found the abilities I need on my own. Our true destiny is to reshape the human race. Start it over. Make it _right_ this time. And you are meant to help me do this. We've been chosen by evolution."

"I'm going to be sick," Mohinder said.

"Oh please, doctor. Don't try and pull your sanctimonious bullshit on me. Without me, the human race is doomed to extinction. Do you really think that without a unifying force the survivors will be able to pull together on their own? No, they need leadership. Someone strong, someone with a vision –"

"No, I mean, I'm really going to be sick." Mohinder fumbled to roll down the window but couldn't quite manage it. He threw up in his lap.

"Oh," said Sylar. "Guess we'll have to make a pit stop."


	2. Clockwork Comfort and Terrifying Tenderness at the Rest and Service Station

They stopped at a rest and service station a few miles down the freeway. The silence and stillness of the world post-virus still surprised Mohinder; places like this should be noisy, with tired truckers smoking and chatting with their colleagues as they stretched their legs, and children shouting and laughing and stuffing greasy fries into their mouths while their parents refilled the tank and bought cheap souvenirs from the gift shop. He and Sylar had stopped at one of these places on their trip together, before he realized who Sylar really was. Mohinder had never been to a rest stop before. It was a very American experience, and he had been charmed by the tackiness of it all. Sylar had just seemed annoyed and anxious to move on. They had reached Dale Smither's garage that afternoon, and she was dead the next day.

"I'm going to refuel and try to find some clothes for you," Sylar said. "Is there anything else you need?"

"I'll just go with you," he said quickly. He couldn't believe that he actually felt safer with Sylar, but the thought of being left alone in the dark made his heart pound.

"Why are you afraid? It's not like there's anybody left alive to hurt you," Sylar pointed out. "Besides, you're not exactly steady on your feet right now, and you're nearly naked and barefoot."

Mohinder couldn't argue with that. He sighed. "What time is it?"

"Six forty seven and nineteen seconds," Sylar said. "Ten minutes after the last time you asked me. Why is it so important?"

Mohinder wanted to explain the horror of the room he'd been locked in, and how disorienting it had been to not know the date, or time, or even whether it was night or day. He wanted to tell him how it had felt like he had been thrust out of time and space and trapped in one long, fluorescent-lit moment with no beginning and no end, and how he had started to wonder whether he was alive or dead, and how he thought that if only he knew the time, he could be sure that he was still anchored in reality. But when he opened his mouth, he found he couldn't put it into words. "It comforts me," he said instead. "It makes me feel…safe." He felt like an idiot.

Sylar considered Mohinder very carefully for a moment, then took his watch off and fastened it around Mohinder's wrist. "Is that better?"

It was, actually. "Yes."

"I'll leave the lights on. I'll only be gone ten minutes – fifteen minutes max. Relax." He got out of the hummer and started walking towards the station, but then he turned back and knocked on Mohinder's window. He rolled it down.

"You do know that if you attempt to get away, I'll hunt you down and make you regret you ever tried, right?"

"Yes, I figured that was implied."

"Good, then." He walked off again.

Mohinder eyed the steering wheel and considered his options. On the one hand, in risky situations, he generally preferred to take his chances if there was even a small possibility that he could succeed. On the other hand, his policy of risk-taking hadn't panned out very well for him lately. Also, he was more than sure that Sylar could and would carry out his threat. More than anything, though, he simply felt too tired to try.

He managed to wrestle off his soiled hospital gown and threw it out the window, then curled up in his blankets as much as he could. He was freezing. Of course, he'd been cold ever since he'd been imprisoned. It was a strange sort of chill that seemed to emanate from inside him, no matter what the temperature was. The fact that it was winter and he had no clothes on made it even worse. He also hurt everywhere. His arms and legs tingled as if he'd been sitting on them, and he felt like a giant fist was squeezing his head in time with his heart beat. The nausea had subsided somewhat, but he still felt an all-over queasiness.

He raised his hand to look at the watch. It was a very handsome timepiece, both sturdy and elegant. Upon looking more closely, he noticed that it said "SYLAR" on its face. He wasn't sure what to make of that. He held it up to his ear, listening to the second hand tick on industriously; the noise soothed him. He folded his hand next to his head, lay against the window, and shut his eyes.

He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew, the door had been opened and he was falling towards the ground. He winced in expectation of hitting the pavement, but the impact never came.

"Sorry," Sylar said. "You didn't hit your head, did you?"

"No," said Mohinder as he floated inches from the ground. Being held telepathically was an odd feeling. It didn't so much feel as though he was weightless; it was more like being encased in a gentle cushion of air. Sylar made a small motion with his hand, and Mohinder began to float upright into a standing position. He tried to grab the blankets, but his fingers refused to cooperate and they ended up falling to the ground, leaving Mohinder floating naked in the cold. He wrapped his arms around himself self-consciously. "Well? Did you find anything for me to wear?"

Sylar just stared at him with a very odd expression on his face. Mohinder noticed that there was a sweatsuit hanging in the air beside Sylar as if on an invisible hanger. He made a grab for it, but it was just out of his reach. "Can I have it, then?" Sylar just continued to stare at him. "_What?_" he snapped.

"You're so thin," Sylar said.

"Yes, well, that's generally what happens when you're put on a forced liquid diet." Mohinder looked down at himself, and even he was shocked at how emaciated he had become. His ribcage protruded out like a pair of monstrous wings, and the curve of his ribs looked so sharp that he half expected they would break through his skin if he made any sudden movements. His folded arms did nothing to obstruct Sylar's view. He felt worse than naked – almost as if he were a corpse already and he was standing there split from navel to throat, awaiting autopsy. "Sylar, I am freezing, so if you could just – oh!" He nearly jumped out of his skin when Sylar placed his hands on his sides. They were so warm. "What are you doing?"

"Getting rid of the cold," Sylar said. A gentle heat began to radiate through him from where Sylar was touching him, flowing deeper into him until he could feel it in his bones. He still hurt, but the deep chill inside him started to melt away. "Is that better?" he asked.

_Yes._ "I hope that isn't radiation," he said instead.

"No. This is something else. I can raise the body temperature of myself and others. Not a particularly interesting power, but useful in the cold."

Mohinder narrowed his eyes. "Exactly how many powers do you have?"

"You know," Sylar said. "I think it might be more fun if I had you guess."

Mohinder did some mental calculation. "There were six people who were murdered on my father's original list. Before our little road trip, you had telekinesis, obviously. And you either froze Molly's father or acquired that ability from him, so cryokenesis. That leaves four that I don't know about from that batch. Then after I met you, you acquired metallic melting and super-hearing from Zane Taylor and Dale Smither, respectively. Precognition from Isaac Mendez. And radioactivity from Ted Sprague. Plus this ability to control body temperature, which I'm guessing was one of the four you had previous to meeting me. So that's ten."

Sylar grinned. "No. Think higher."

"Higher? You didn't take my laptop, and besides, everyone started dying shortly after our last encounter – how would you have had the time or ability to acquire more?"

"I have an eidetic memory. I didn't have to take your laptop – I memorized all the files while I was waiting for you. It was easy pickings after that."

"You're disgusting," Mohinder said.

"They would have been dead soon anyway," Sylar pointed out.

"Oh, so that makes your murder of them somehow justified," Mohinder said, but Sylar wasn't listening to him anymore.

Sylar ran a finger along a rib. "Poor Mohinder. Always the tool for someone else's machinations." He looked angry all of a sudden. "I should have made them suffer more for what they did to you," he said fiercely.

Mohinder wasn't sure what to say to that. He considered pointing out that Sylar didn't seem overwhelmingly concerned with his physical well-being the last few times they'd crossed paths, but one look at Sylar's expression made him decide that it might not be a good idea.

Sylar slowly stepped in closer, as if he was afraid Mohinder might run away, which was ridiculous since Sylar's telekinetic grip on him prevented him from moving much at all. He slid his hands from Mohinder's hips to his back, then slowly up his spine. Mohinder tried and failed to suppress a gasp. Sylar leaned his temple against Mohinder's; his breath came hot and fast in his ear. He closed the last few centimeters between them and suddenly, a few formerly fuzzy aspects of Sylar's motivations in rescuing him snapped into alarming focus.

"Sylar – that's – thank you, that's much better, but I'm awfully tired and would like to sit down – in fact I'm quite light-headed, so if you would please just – "

"'You do not choose your destiny. It chooses you,'" Sylar said lowly in his ear. "'And those who knew you before fate took you by the hand cannot understand the depth of the changes inside. They cannot fathom how much you stand to lose in failure. But you are the instrument of a flawless design, and all of life may hang in the balance. A hero learns quickly who can comprehend and who merely stands in your way.'"

The words sounded vaguely familiar. "Wait – _I_ wrote that!" he said. "In my journal! Did you – did you break into my apartment and steal my journals?!"

"I didn't have to steal them. I just read them. I just told you I have an eidetic memory."

It was a rather stupid thing to get upset over considering the circumstances, but the enormity of the unfairness of the whole situation he found himself in was almost too much for him to contemplate all at once, so his mind grabbed onto this small injustice and refused to let go. "I can't believe you broke into my apartment and sat around memorizing my personal, _private_ thoughts – why would you do that? I mean, other than to subject me to yet another humiliating invasion of my privacy?"

"I'm interested in you, Mohinder," Sylar said. He let his hands slide down again until they rested just above his hips. "I want to know what makes you…tick. And when I read those words, I knew that you understood me. That you were the only one who ever could. Destiny chose you for me. You may not know it yet, but you will." He nuzzled against Mohinder. "I like the way your hair smells."

At that point, Mohinder snapped. There were limits to what a person could endure, and having one's hair smelled by a serial killer while naked in the parking lot of a truck stop in the middle of winter was definitely one of them. He brought his hands up and shoved Sylar as hard as he could (which, admittedly, was not very hard). It took Sylar by surprise, apparently, because he stumbled backwards an inch or so.

"I have _had_ it. I have lost everyone I've ever cared for – hell, I've lost nearly everyone I've ever _met_. I have been imprisoned, beaten, drugged, and experimented on, and I'm _tired_, so if you're going to rape me, could you please wait to do it until we're somewhere near a bed so that I can at least lie down first?"

Sylar blinked. "I'm not going to rape you."

"Oh, of course not. And that's just a banana in your pocket, right?"

The lighting was very poor, but Mohinder could have sworn that Sylar was blushing. He reached out and gripped Mohinder's arms, and the fear Mohinder had temporarily forgotten came back in a sudden rush. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_, Mohinder thought. Provoking an amorous serial killer was not a move that would help him avoid bodily harm. But Sylar simply lifted him up and back into the hummer. He handed Mohinder the shirt and trousers.

"Do you need help getting those on?" he asked.

"No, I'm fine." Mohinder quickly pulled them on.

"You can be very annoying sometimes, Mohinder," Sylar said. Mohinder couldn't think of anything to say to that.

Sylar walked around to the other side of the hummer and got in. He pulled out of the rest area, and they resumed their journey. He wouldn't look at Mohinder; he kept his gaze fixed firmly on the road. He was gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

Well. This was an interesting and terrifying turn of events. Mohinder wondered what sort of bizarre moral system Sylar operated under that was fine with killing innocent people and removing their brains, but drew the line at sexual assault. Oddly enough, he believed Sylar; his virtue was probably safe. He was so giddy with fear that he almost giggled. The whole situation was so absurd.

After a few minutes, Sylar passed a bag over to Mohinder. "There's a bottle of water and Tylenol in there. Take some – I know you're in a lot of pain. And stop looking at me like that," he snapped. "I said I wasn't going to hurt you. Your heartbeat is giving me a headache."

Mohinder breathed in deeply and tried to calm down. He took out the Tylenol bottle and tapped out two pills into his palm, then he shook out two more. He opened the bottle of water and took a careful sip, hoping that he'd be able to keep it down.

When he looked back over at Sylar, he seemed to have calmed down. "I didn't know that you would be in such a bad state," Sylar said eventually. "I would have been more prepared. I'll get you something stronger for your pain at the next pharmacy we come across."

"Thank you," Mohinder said before he could stop himself.

Mohinder stared out the window. It was still early yet, but he could see the stars with remarkable clarity. He imagined that the sky would only get clearer as the last remnants of the industrial age collapsed, and eventually smog would be only an unpleasant memory. "May I ask you something?" Mohinder said.

"Sure."

"You said you didn't know that I was being held captive, but you did know where I was. If I had been willingly working with them, would you have taken me by force?"

"But you weren't," Sylar said.

_That isn't an answer_, Mohinder thought, but he decided not to press the issue. He already knew the answer, anyway. "Where are we going?" he asked instead.

"A little town called Piedmont. It's small and out of the way. I doubt that the military can spare anyone to follow us, but still, better safe than sorry. I figured we can lay low for a while; it would give you time to recover, and in a few months, the remaining vestiges of the government will collapse."

"And then what?"

Sylar smiled. "And then we start recreating the world." Sylar placed a hand on his knee, and the soothing warmth began to flow through him again. "You should get some rest." In spite of himself, his eyelids started to get heavy. He took one last look at the watch. It was seven o'clock exactly. He sighed, leaned his head up against the window, and fell asleep.

******

Mohinder woke up to Sylar gently shaking his shoulder. "Wake up," he said. "We're here."

He reluctantly opened his eyes. He checked his watch. It was a little past one in the morning. "Do you think you can walk?" Sylar asked.

"No," he said. He actually felt worse than before. Every part of his body ached twice as badly, and the chill had returned with a vengeance. His teeth started to chatter.

Sylar got out of the hummer and walked around to Mohinder's side. "You don't look so good, doctor," he said. "Let's get you inside." He lifted Mohinder out of the hummer and walked quickly towards the large house in front of them. Mohinder rested his head on Sylar's chest. He smelled slightly sweaty, but not unpleasantly so. The fabric of his army jacket scratched against his face.

By the time Sylar reached the house, he was nearly running. The door swung open and he sprinted up the stairs, then turned right into a bedroom and laid Mohinder on the bed, then turned on the lamp beside the bed.

"How is there electricity?" Mohinder asked.

"I've hooked the house up to an electric generator. But it's not important now; I'll explain everything later. I'll be right back," he said. "Don't move." As if he could.

Through the haze of his pain, Mohinder examined the room. The walls were covered in the most hideous floral wallpaper he'd ever seen. Just looking at it made his headache worse. In addition to the bed, there was a frouffy armchair, a white wicker love seat, and a small brown dresser with a mirror in the room. The carpet was an ugly shade of blue.

Sylar retuned, carrying a bag. He reached in it and pulled out the water bottle and Tylenol he'd given Mohinder earlier. He helped Mohinder into a sitting position and put two pills in his mouth, then brought the water bottle to his lips.

"You can't be getting sick," he said, his tone almost accusatory. "I thought you said you were immune!"

"I thought I was!" Mohinder shot back. He retched, but managed to keep the pills down.

Sylar got up and started pacing. "No, this isn't happening," he said. His voice quivered slightly in growing panic. "This isn't a part of my plan!"

"Oh, I'm so sorry that my death would interrupt your _plans_," Mohinder said. He thought for a moment. A spasm overtook him, and suddenly he longed for his small white room back at the base with an intensity that frightened him.

He considered that desire very carefully. "I think I might be in withdrawal," he said.

Sylar stopped pacing. "Really?"

"If I had been infected with the virus, it would have had to have happened sometime between when you broke me out and now, and no strain that I know of manifests symptoms that quickly after infection. It's not out of the realm of possibility that a fast-acting strain that I'm not immune to has developed, but it seems unlikely."

"What did they give you?"

"I don't know. They kept me heavily sedated, especially recently." Sylar had taken him around one o'clock pm, so it had been about twelve hours. Was that long enough for withdrawal symptoms to start kicking in? He wasn't sure when they had last dosed him. Maybe it was being made worse by shock and the fact that his physical condition was so poor.

Sylar sat down on the bed and took a deep breath. "Okay, addiction. I can deal with that. I just need to do some reading."

"You'll do some reading," Mohinder said. "Oh, well, I feel better already."

Sylar smiled and brushed a curl back from Mohinder's face. "I'm a very quick study. And I can go raid a hospital and get whatever I need. I'll take care of you, Mohinder."

Mohinder's entire body was now covered in a cold sweat, and his shivering was growing rapidly worse. "Cold," he said through chattering teeth.

Sylar stood up and walked to the other side of the bed, then climbed in. Mohinder gasped from the sudden, searing heat of Sylar's body against his back. "Shhh," Sylar said. "It's all right."

_No, it is most definitely not all right_, Mohinder thought, and laughed weakly, which set off another series of spasms. After a few minutes, the fit passed, leaving Mohinder gasping and exhausted. Sweat dripped into his eyes; he blinked rapidly, which caused tears to leak out and down his cheeks. Sylar wiped the wetness away with his hand.

"I can't do this," Mohinder moaned, as if this was something he could reject.

Sylar shushed him again. "You don't have a choice. Stop trying to fight it and just give in and let it pass. Let go. Rest." He lifted Mohinder's right hand and looked at the watch. "It's one oh eight and fifty-seven seconds," he said, his lips pressed against Mohinder's ear. "Fifty-eight, fifty-nine…one oh nine and one…two… three…"

With the amount of pain he was in and how much his mind was reeling, he thought that sleep would be impossible. But the warmth of the arms around him, and the steady pulse of the body behind him, and the quiet voice murmuring the time in his ear, pulled Mohinder into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The excerpt from Mohinder's "journal" is one of his monologues from "Nothing to Hide." I like thinking that he sits around writing purple prose between experiments.


	3. The Trouble with Cockroaches, or Domestic Bliss in Piedmont, Missouri

That was the last good night of sleep he had for weeks. Rationally, he knew that he must be getting some rest, but he felt as if he were always awake. His whole body shook constantly, and his heart raced. At the hospital, he had felt deadened, cut off from all sensation. Now he felt alive – very horribly, intensely alive. His senses went into overdrive. Colors were brighter. Sounds were heavier. He saw things out of the corner of his eyes – dark, terrible things he couldn't identify. Nothing seemed to be still; it all _crawled_ around him, like the furniture was being carried by armies of insects marching in place.

And the wallpaper certainly wasn't helping things. It was violently floral. Large pink roses vibrated on a washed-out blue background, and it seemed like there were thousands of them, shaking as if being knocked back and forth by some violent maelstrom. But Mohinder knew that was silly. The windows were all shut. No, it was the work of the cockroaches.

He had been suspicious at first. He knew that he was going through a terrible withdrawal, and that his senses were not reliable. But as time went on and his other hallucinations had subsided, the cockroaches stayed. As he had lectured to his students several lifetimes ago, cockroaches were resilient. In circumstances that were dark and desolate, cockroaches thrived, and circumstances couldn't get darker or more desolate, so of course they were here. Part of him was aware that this wasn't particularly good logic, but then again, how else could he explain it? The little bastards were everywhere. They usually kept hidden under the wallpaper, but every so often they would burst out from their hiding place and scuttle across the floor and into his bed, where they would tickle his skin with their legs and feelers until he screamed. Satisfied with their work, they would then retreat back under the wallpaper, where they quivered in joy and anticipation for the next time they could escape and continue their torment. _That_ was why the roses wouldn't stop shaking.

Sylar said he couldn't see them, but then again, Sylar was a notorious liar and definitely not to be trusted. Mohinder knew he had to keep an eye on him. Fortunately, this was fairly easy to do, since he sat in the big white armchair next to Mohinder's bed for most of the day, idly reading some book or another. At night, he slept beside Mohinder, ready to comfort him when he awoke from his frequent nightmares.

Sylar brought in a large grandfather clock, as well as a digital clock that he sat on the nightstand that broadcasted the time in large, friendly green numbers (although he still preferred the watch because he could hold it up closely to his face so he could hear the ticking of the second hand). It was this and the fact that Sylar moved his bed beside the window so he could always see outside that kept Mohinder's panic in check. On milder days, Sylar would open the window and sit beside Mohinder in bed, using his ability to keep him warm as Mohinder breathed in the fresh air.

Sylar also set up a TV in Mohinder's room and put on movies for him to watch. Mohinder was grateful for the distraction, although he had very different tastes in movies from Sylar – Sylar had an over-fondness of science fiction and action movies. He loved _Star Trek_ especially. He also read to him sometimes, usually science fiction novels and books on evolution. When Mohinder was especially bad and couldn't concentrate enough to follow the plots, Sylar counted out the time for him. He liked that the most; it made his heart beat more steadily and his breathing more regular.

Sylar hooked him up to a saline and vitamin IV; Mohinder balked at that initially, but even in his crazed state he recognized that it was probably a necessity. He fed Mohinder lukewarm soup, various fruit preserves, vegetables, nuts, and fresh milk and eggs from the livestock he kept down the road. Mohinder often vomited them up, but Sylar never seemed to take it personally. Mohinder alternated between feeling freezing cold and burning hot, and through it all, he would sweat ceaselessly; Sylar had to change the sheets two or three times a day. He got Mohinder up at least once a day and made him walk around the house. He seemed to have infinite patience.

He was definitely up to something.

Maybe Sylar was poisoning him. Maybe he was working with his former captors to – well, he wasn't sure, but it couldn't be anything good. It didn't seem very likely, but it couldn't hurt to be careful – constant vigilance and all that. He needed to escape as soon as possible.

One day, when Sylar left to do some chores, Mohinder unplugged the lamp, held it in his lap, and waited for him to return. As soon as Sylar opened the door, he threw it at his head. Right before it would have crashed into his skull, Sylar stopped it with his telekinesis. Rats.

"You're getting much stronger!" Sylar said brightly.

Mohinder hid under the covers. Maybe he would go away if he was very quiet.

No such luck. Sylar replaced the lamp on the nightstand and sat down on the edge of the bed. He threw back the covers. "How are you feeling?"

Mohinder mumbled something and tried to hide under the blankets again, but Sylar wouldn't let him.

"I think you've been cooped up in here too long," Sylar said. "And I think you're well enough to be up and around. What do you say we go for a walk?"

Mohinder bit his lip. On the one hand, he might be able to make an escape attempt if he were outside. On the other hand, he wondered if it would be okay to leave the cockroaches to their own devices. Without him to keep watch, there could be thousands of them running around the room when he returned (that is, if the escape attempt wasn't successful).

Sylar stood up and held out his hand. "Come on. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life in this room?"

Well, when he put it that way… Mohinder reached up and grabbed his hand. Sylar held him steady while he gained his footing. They walked together out of the room, then slowly down the stairs. When they reached the front door, Sylar took a coat and a pair of socks and shoes out of the closet and helped Mohinder into them. "Ready?" Mohinder nodded. Sylar crooked his arm around Mohinder's to support him, and they walked through the doorway.

It was cold outside, but the fresh air felt wonderful. It was one of those crystal-sharp winter days; the sky was intensely blue and it felt like he could see for miles and miles. There was about an inch of snow on the ground, which crunched pleasantly under their feet. Mohinder didn't have much experience with snow growing up, and whenever he encountered it, the thing that surprised him most was how crunchy it was. When he was a child, he had assumed it would be like walking on cotton.

Sylar looked over at him and smiled. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," he said. He looked around, trying to determine what his best plan of action would be. Maybe he could make a distraction and then run for it. Of course, he might be running directly into _their_ hands. Mohinder was a little unclear on who "they" were, but he was sure they were dangerous. He decided to try to pump Sylar for information.

"I know what you're up to," he said with what he hoped sounded like authority. "I'm not stupid – you can't fool me."

Sylar raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what would that be?"

Damn. Plan A it was, then. "WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!" he screamed while pointing behind Sylar.

"What?" Sylar said, and while he was looking, Mohinder broke away from him and started towards the woods.

He got about ten feet before he tripped and fell over. He'd underestimated how much Sylar had been supporting him. Considering how long he'd spent in bed, he was kind of surprised he could walk on his own at all. He couldn't quite stand up, but he did manage to bring himself to a sitting position.

Sylar walked over and looked down at him. "Did you just try to make a run for it?" He sounded completely baffled, as if it was a terrible idea.

Mohinder stayed stoically silent. Name, rank and serial number was all Sylar was getting if he pressed him. He'd seen that in a movie once.

Sylar knelt down in the snow in front of Mohinder. "The drug should be out of your system by now. I don't understand why – I don't know how – " He made a frustrated noise. He reached out again and cupped Mohinder's cheek in his hand. "Christ, what did they do to you?"

Mohinder pulled away. "What did _you_ do to me," he retorted.

Sylar looked puzzled. "What do you mean? I rescued you."

"You kidnapped me; I didn't ask you to bring me here!"

Sylar's expression darkened, and there was a very dangerous edge to his voice. "So you would rather be back at that hospital, being tested on, than be here with me."

"I would rather be home." The longing he felt was so intense he thought it would choke him. "I miss my family."

He registered the pain first before he understood that Sylar had just slapped him. "Snap out of it, Mohinder. They're dead – they're all dead, and this is your home now. _I_ am your home now. _I'm_ the one that saved you; _I'm_ the one who's taking care of you."

Mohinder held a hand to his cheek. That had really hurt.

Sylar sighed and sat down next to Mohinder in the snow, leaning his elbows on his knees and holding his head in his hands. "This isn't going the way I planned it."

"You're telling me," Mohinder said. His ass was very wet and cold.

Sylar stood up, then boosted Mohinder to his feet with telekinesis. "I think we've had enough excitement for one day."

They made their way back to the house. Mohinder felt nervous as they walked up the stairs to his room. He hadn't been gone very long, but the cockroaches could be quick little buggers when they wanted to. When they got there, though, the room was empty, and, Mohinder noticed, the flowers on the wallpaper had stopped moving.

Mohinder broke out of Sylar's grasp and crept over to the wall. He found a seam in the wallpaper and started to pick at it.

"What are you doing?" Sylar asked.

"Would you help me peel this back?"

"Why?"

"I want to check something."

Sylar shrugged and made a slicing motion with his finger. A section of the wallpaper fell away from the wall.

Mohinder stared in amazement – the wall underneath was completely empty. He lay his hands against the wall and walked around the room; the wallpaper had no bumps in it at all. "They're gone!"

"Who's gone?" Sylar asked.

"The cockroaches!" He felt giddy with relief. "You didn't see them downstairs, did you?"

Sylar suddenly grabbed Mohinder and enveloped him in a fierce embrace. "No, I didn't," he said. He sounded almost as relieved as Mohinder.

 

********

Mohinder began to slowly but steadily recover. Every day, his mind became a little clearer and his thoughts less muddled. Although Sylar didn't allow him to walk around outdoors on his own, he was strong enough to get around the house by himself. He often left his bedroom to curl up in the little sitting room on the third floor and read books Sylar would bring to him. He also liked to putter around in the kitchen; he had always found cooking relaxing. Sylar seemed indifferent to how food tasted – he ate for sustenance only, so Mohinder was glad for the opportunity to make what he liked, although Sylar didn't have the right spices to make proper food.

He hoped that since his health was improving, Sylar would let him sleep on his own. He brought it up once, pointing out that there were three other bedrooms. Sylar got very tight-lipped and insisted that Mohinder was still very weak and might need his help in the middle of the night. Mohinder responded by reminding Sylar that he had enhanced hearing, telekinesis, and numerous other powers, so he wouldn't have trouble getting to Mohinder if he should need assistance. The day after their discussion, all the other beds disappeared from the house, and that was the end of that.

About a month after their disastrous attempt at a walk, Mohinder asked Sylar to take him out again. Sylar agreed, but would only walk him up the street and back again. He got a good look at the house for the first time. It was a large, three-story Victorian-style home, colored pale yellow, with the exception of a few turrets off the second floor, which were bright turquoise. There was a stone wraparound porch which was connected to the second story by white columns. Some care had been taken with its upkeep, but it still had obviously seen better days. There was also what looked like a carriage house off to the right. A sign on the front lawn read: "THE MORGAN HOUSE &amp; KAYLA'S KOTTAGE: BED WITH BREAKFAST"

Sylar explained that the house was set up with its own septic system and running water from a private well. And since it was an old house, it was heated with a wood-burning stove. "It's really nice, huh?" Sylar had said. "I spent a long time looking for the perfect place."

Actually, Mohinder thought it was a bit tacky, although it did have a sort of ominous air about it, like one of those "haunted houses" that were featured in sensationalist books and movies. Maybe there _were_ ghosts lurking around the hallways; stranger things had happened. Mohinder wondered what they thought of the new inhabitants of their home.

Sylar took Mohinder around back to show him the "Kottage," which he had converted into a library. He had gathered a very impressive amount of books on a wide variety of subjects. There were lots of books on biology, evolution, and neuroscience, as well as a number of science fiction novels, but most of the books were how-to manuals. Sylar explained that his eidetic memory allowed him to learn how to expertly do almost anything with one read-through of a book or manual. He startled Mohinder rather badly by telling him this in flawless Tamil. Mohinder couldn't pinpoint exactly why it disturbed him – maybe it was because it made Sylar seem nearly omniscient. At any rate, it distressed him so much that Sylar never did it again.

A few days later, Sylar drove Mohinder down the road and showed him the barn he'd constructed, where he kept a few chickens, a dairy cow and a bull. A little ways down from the barn, there was a large greenhouse Sylar had also built, which housed an impressive vegetable garden. It was evident that Sylar had spent a great deal of time setting all of this up. He guessed that Sylar had been in this town for many months – maybe even as long as a year. Had this town been empty when Sylar found it? A year ago, there could have been survivors still living there, especially since the town was so isolated. Had they evacuated? Or had Sylar "helped" them along?

The whole situation was disturbingly domestic. Mohinder actively tried to avoid thinking about it; he had just regained his sanity and wasn't anxious to lose it again. He told himself that the more docile he appeared, the easier it would be to escape later. But at the same time, he felt that playing along was dangerous in a different way. He was having an increasingly difficult time reconciling Sylar the killer with the man who treated him so gently. He saw himself a year from now, complacent as a cow, with only the faintest memory that the man he lived with had killed his father and God knew how many others. Every time he felt touched by some small gesture of Sylar's, he forced himself to remember his father's crushed skull, or Dale Smither's bloody body, or Molly's shrieks of terror in the night when she dreamed of the brutal murder of her parents. Even so, his hate was rapidly becoming less visceral and more abstract. It frightened him.

The whole situation came to a head one evening when Sylar came into the kitchen while Mohinder was cooking and gave him a kiss on the cheek before asking him what was for dinner. Something in him snapped. Mohinder took hold of the skillet he was using, turned around, and bashed Sylar square in the face.

Sylar fell to the floor with a satisfying thud. Mohinder ran to the foyer and sprinted out the door and to the driveway.

He jumped into the hummer. Army-issued hummers didn't use keys, and Sylar hadn't bothered to chain the steering wheel, so he had no trouble starting it and was soon speeding down the street. He didn't know where he was going, and he knew he most likely wouldn't get very far, but every fiber of his being screamed at him to run away, as fast and far as he could.

He made it about three blocks before the hummer jerked violently to a stop and then began to move in reverse. Mohinder opened the door and threw himself out; he hit the ground hard and didn't even have time to get to his feet before he was yanked up and back until he was floating in the air in front of Sylar.

"What the hell has gotten into you?!" Sylar said. Mohinder noticed that his face had no marks on it, which meant that he had the ability to heal. Great.

"Fuck you," Mohinder snarled. He tried to twist out of Sylar's telekinetic grip, but it was, of course, useless.

Sylar grabbed his shirt and dragged him through the air back into the house, then threw him to the floor. "Would you care to explain what that was all about?" he asked.

Mohinder glared up at him. "Did you really think that I'd resigned myself to being your fucking housewife?" he said. "That I'd completely forgotten what a monster you are?" He laughed bitterly. "What did you think was going to happen? That once you nursed me back to health, I would launch myself into your arms out of gratitude, and we'd live happily ever after?"

Mohinder flew up through the air again and was jerked backward until his back hit the wall. His feet dangled helplessly a few inches from the ground.

Mohinder was beyond feeling fear at this point; he only felt fury. "Are you really so delusional that you think I could ever accept any of this willingly?"

Sylar wrapped a hand around Mohinder's throat. He leaned in until their lips almost touched. "Do you want me to force you, Mohinder?" he said softly. "Would that make it easier for you?"

Mohinder didn't respond. He closed his eyes and braced himself for whatever came next.

But Sylar simply released his grip and set Mohinder gently back on his feet. Mohinder let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding and opened his eyes.

Sylar sighed, his anger apparently forgotten. He brushed a damp curl away from Mohinder's face. "You are infuriatingly stubborn sometimes." His tone was almost…_fond._ Why wasn't he angry? Mohinder supposed that he should be grateful that he wasn't getting the shit kicked out of him (or worse), but Sylar's reaction infuriated him. He'd tried to bash his head in! Why wasn't he taking that seriously?

The answer came to him as soon as his mind formed the question. Sylar was invulnerable. He had God knew how many superhuman abilities at his disposal. Mohinder attacking him was like an ant trying to bring down a lion.

Sylar looked at him thoughtfully. He took Mohinder's hand in his own. Mohinder was too tired to protest. "Come with me," he said. "I have something to show you."

They walked out the back door and to the cottage. Mohinder sat down in one of the armchairs while Sylar pulled out a canvas from behind one of the book shelves. He held it up for Mohinder to see.

It was a painting of Mohinder either taking blood or giving an injection to a young girl. There was a woman (maybe the girl's mother?) standing beside her. The girl's face was twisted in discomfort, but the woman was looking at Mohinder with gratitude. And behind Mohinder stood Sylar – his hand was resting on Mohinder's shoulder, and Mohinder appeared to be leaning into it. They looked comfortable, familiar. Mohinder's expression was serene. Sylar was smiling.

"I painted this a year ago," Sylar said. "I told you we had a destiny."

Mohinder stared at the picture. He could feel himself grow pale. "This – this doesn't prove anything. How do I know that this is prophetic and not some sort of fantasy you concocted?"

Sylar raised an eyebrow. "A fantasy involving you giving a shot to a little girl? I'm not that kinky."

"All right, so what if at some point in the future we work together to help people. That doesn't mean that we're…" He couldn't quite bring himself to say 'in love.' "…what you obviously want us to be."

Sylar smirked. "There are other paintings."

Mohinder's heart sank. "Well – are you going to show them to me?"

Sylar regarded him carefully. "No, I don't think so. This is obviously upsetting you – I don't want you to have a relapse."

"What?!" Mohinder jumped to his feet. "You can't reveal something like this to me and not –" He suddenly felt dizzy; he had stood up too quickly. The surge of adrenalin that had allowed him to try and get away had passed, and he was reminded of how weak he still was. It was like even his own body was conspiring to keep him here.

Sylar was beside him in an instant. "Easy now." He put a hand on Mohinder's elbow to steady him.

Mohinder took a deep breath and pulled away. "Get your hands off of me. Now."

Sylar let go. "Sure, Mohinder. Whatever you want."

Mohinder left the cottage and returned to the house. He went upstairs to the bedroom and shut the door, locking it behind him. He knew that it wouldn't keep Sylar out, but he was hoping he would take the hint and sleep elsewhere tonight.

Miraculously, he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Morgan House [actually exists.](http://www.themorganhouse.net/) Take a look at the blue room and you'll see what Mohinder means about the wallpaper.


	4. How to Keep Your Man: And Keep Him for Good

Mohinder woke up the next morning feeling oddly refreshed after a night of sleeping alone. And ironically, he felt hopeful for the first time in weeks. When Isaac Mendez painted the destruction of New York, it was the knowledge of that future that allowed them to prevent it. Now Mohinder knew at least a little of what was "destined." And Sylar said there were other paintings. If he could find them, maybe he could discover a clue that would help him alter the future – help him escape, and maybe bring Sylar down. He just had to be patient and careful.

He took a shower and went downstairs to make some breakfast, only to find that Sylar had beaten him to it. The table was set for two.

"Hey you," Sylar said. "You're just in time – I made waffles."

Mohinder sat down as Sylar finished cooking. He tried to read Sylar's expression – had he decided to pretend last night never happened? Was he angry? Pleased that he'd squashed Mohinder's rebellion? Completely oblivious? As usual, Mohinder couldn't tell.

"Thank you," Mohinder said when Sylar served him.

Sylar smiled. "You're in a much better mood this morning."

"I had an exceptionally good night of sleep," Mohinder said. Sylar's lips thinned, and Mohinder had to suppress a smirk. There was no misreading that expression.

They ate in silence. When Mohinder was finished, he said, "I thought I'd browse the library today."

"Sure," Sylar said. "There's something I want to look for out of town. I should be back by this evening."

Mohinder stared at him. Was he really going to leave him alone so soon after he'd attempted to escape? Was this some sort of test?

"Be good while I'm gone," Sylar said warningly.

Aha – so it _was_ a test. Mohinder intended to pass it with flying colors. Last night he had realized that now wasn't the time to escape. He was too weak, for one. He also didn't stand a chance unless he planned it in excruciating detail. And this would be an excellent opportunity to gain Sylar's trust. He didn't want to appear too cooperative, though, so he scowled at Sylar and stomped out of the room.

Mohinder waited until he heard the hummer leave, then made his way to the library. The first thing he did was search around for any paintings – he didn't find any, including the one Sylar had shown him last night. He wasn't particularly surprised. He wondered if Sylar had destroyed them all, but somehow he doubted it. He seemed so pleased with the future they depicted that it seemed to Mohinder that Sylar would want to keep them around.

He had briefly browsed the library before when Sylar had first showed it to him, but now he had a chance to look through it at his leisure. The books were organized by subject. Sylar had brought him several books on evolution when he was recovering, perhaps out of an attempt to convince Mohinder that his plan for world domination was ordained by nature – of course, one had to view the world with Sylar's particular brand of psychosis to think that they proved anything of the kind.

Mohinder selected a few of the books on neuroscience; he didn't have a laboratory, but old habits died hard. Maybe he'd have an epiphany about how special abilities worked that could help him deal with Sylar, although he wasn't very optimistic.

Although...maybe he could convince Sylar to set up a lab for him. He wasn't sure exactly what he would be looking for, but before the virus broke out, he felt that he was very close to a breakthrough concerning the mechanism through which the special abilities worked. Maybe he could discover a way to de-power him. That would be his best bet at escape. He'd have to think of a good reason to convince Sylar to not only get him the equipment he needed, but also volunteer his blood for study, but it was worth a shot. Maybe he could convince him that he wanted to start work on finding a cure again. He himself knew that it was probably hopeless, but maybe he could convince Sylar otherwise.

As he browsed through some of the how-to books, he made a terrifying discovery. There was a whole shelf devoted to relationship advice. Among the titles were: _Redeeming Relationships: How to Resolve 10 Common Conflicts_ (Oh, yes, he could see it now - "The use of telekinesis can often bring a swift end to any argument..." ); _Nineteen Reasons Why He Left You, Honey_ ("Reason 1: You killed his father"); _How to Keep Your Man: And Keep Him for Good_ ("First, imprison him in a bed-and-breakfast in an abandoned town in the middle of nowhere…"); _Romeo's Playbook: A Man's Guide for Enhancing His Relationship and Sex Life_ (actual quotation: "When it comes to love, arguing will get you nowhere, but a little romance and kindness will get you just about anything you want!" Well, that would help explain why Sylar was taking a kinder, gentler approach in his attempts to twist Mohinder's actions to his will); and last, but certainly not least: _The Gay Kama Sutra._

More helpfully, he found some guides on wilderness survival. He took what looked like the most promising one: _The SAS Escape, Evasion &amp; Survival Manual._ He would have to keep that book hidden; Sylar probably wouldn't appreciate Mohinder's interest in the subject.

He returned to the house and placed the books by his favorite reading chair. Then he took some time to search the house for the paintings. He didn't find any, which was frustrating, but he was fairly confident he could get Sylar to reveal them to him if he played his cards right.

He also explored the back yard for the first time. There was a concrete patio, an in-ground swimming pool and a hot tub, and beyond that there was a dead lawn. It looked like there used to be a large garden – there were a few stone semi-circles that appeared to be raised flower beds, and there were tacky garden statues interspersed among the barren patches of land. The garden wasn't only dead – it was completely cleared out. He supposed that Sylar might have uprooted everything, since he liked for things to be tidy and probably saw no point in keeping a flower garden.

Mohinder brushed the snow off of one of the flower beds, and remarkably, he found a small flower growing in the soil. The bloom was small and white; it hung shyly downwards from the delicate stalk. It seemed so improbable that this little flower could bloom in this cold, dead season when everything else had been uprooted.

Mohinder went back inside and up to his reading room. He picked up the _SAS Survival Manual_ and leafed through it. The first two chapters were devoted to escaping from a POW camp, which was interesting but not particularly useful for his situation. One part did catch his eye, though: the section on the psychological effects of being held captive. Under the heading of "Boredom and Isolation," he read:

> _These are two tough enemies for any prisoner of war, and they tend to occur together…Dealing with waiting when there is nothing happening can play a very significant part in survival. Many hopes and expectations may be raised, only to be dashed to nothing…the best antidote is to talk – to yourself if necessary – and make plans for the future. Talk about the future that awaits you after your escape. Devise problems to keep your mind exercised and occupied. Active, positive thinking leaves no room for boredom or loneliness._

Well, he certainly couldn't babble to himself about escape plans, especially since Sylar had super-hearing, but the part about keeping his mind occupied was a good point.

Sylar returned around sunset. Mohinder hid the _Survival Manual_ under his chair and went downstairs.

"You were certainly gone for a long time," Mohinder said as Sylar walked through the door, carrying two large bags.

"Did you miss me?" Sylar asked.

Mohinder rolled his eyes.

Sylar handed Mohinder one of the bags. "Here," he said. "It's a present." He took the other bag and walked back towards the kitchen.

Mohinder opened the bag, and the smell of spices wafted over him. The bag was filled with jars and bottles.

He followed Sylar into the kitchen. "What's all this?" he asked.

"I found an Indian food store," Sylar said while he started to shelve the contents of his bag in the pantry. "You really need to eat more, so I thought this would help."

Mohinder sat down at the table and pulled out a bottle of curry powder. "Oh," he said. He shut his eyes and thought about how Molly used to crawl into bed with him, shaking and sobbing and begging Mohinder not to let the boogieman kill her.

Sylar finished putting his groceries away and came out of the pantry. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing," Mohinder said. "Sylar, I was thinking. I need something to do with myself. I feel like I'm losing my mind, sitting around this house with nothing to do."

Sylar sat down across from him. "What did you have in mind?"

He took a deep breath. "I thought maybe you could get me some lab equipment."

"Why would you need that?" Sylar asked, puzzled.

"I was just thinking that maybe I could start up my research for a cure again."

Sylar raised an eyebrow. "And you think that you could make a breakthrough here, all by yourself, when a team of scientists working for months with the best equipment the government could offer couldn't."

"All right, maybe not," Mohinder said. He wasn't sure if he should be honest about his true intentions, but maybe it would be less suspicious if he was up front. "But maybe I could study you, and your abilities."

Sylar became very still. "And why, doctor, would you want to do that?"

Mohinder could tell that there was something very dark lurking under that stillness. He faltered. "Well. Um. Aren't you curious about how your abilities work?"

"Not particularly," Sylar said. "Why are you interested?"

Mohinder wasn't quite sure how the situation had turned on him so suddenly. One minute they'd been chatting casually, and the next, Sylar was staring at him like he'd whacked him in the face with a frying pan again. "It's my father's research," he said, trying to regain control of the conversation. "I'd like to continue it."

Sylar didn't so much stand up as uncoil. He walked slowly over to Mohinder's side of the table. "Just out of idle curiosity, then?" he said, looking down at Mohinder. His tone was casual, but his stance was definitely not.

Mohinder nodded, but did not meet Sylar's gaze. "Of course."

They were both silent for a tense few seconds. Mohinder's heart was pounding. Had Sylar guessed his true motivations? Was he really that transparent?

Sylar moved behind Mohinder and put his hands on his shoulders; Mohinder continued to stare dully at the space in front of him. "Mohinder, I have never seen you do anything out of idle curiosity. Maybe that's what motivates other scientists, but not you. You always have some goal in mind, so if you say you want to put my blood under a microscope, it's because you believe it will accomplish something." He leaned down and pressed his lips against Mohinder's ear. "And despite all the kindness I've shown you, I doubt that you have my best interests at heart." Sylar squeezed Mohinder's shoulders, then released him.

Sylar straightened up and moved to stand in front of him. "Mohinder, look at me." When Mohinder didn't comply, Sylar took his chin in his hands and forced him to look up. Sylar sighed. "I understand that this is a difficult adjustment for you, but I've seen the future, and you're there with me. Any attempts at getting away from me are destined to fail - literally. So I want you to put all of those ideas out of your head."

"Or what?" Mohinder said fiercely. "You keep blathering on about us being destined to be together, so I know you aren't going to kill me."

Sylar sat down beside Mohinder and took his hand in his own. He sat there for a moment, gathering his thoughts, and then he said, "I once had a 1917 Heuer chronograph. It was an exquisite time piece, but I could never quite get it to work properly. I worked on it for seven years – taking it apart, and putting it back together, over and over, again and again, until finally, I got it to run perfectly." He brought Mohinder's hand up to his mouth and kissed it. "It just required patience, and a delicate touch."

A shudder ripped through Mohinder's body. Sylar gave his hand a pat before releasing it and standing up. "You'll feel better once you eat. How about I make us some dinner?" Mohinder didn't respond, but it seemed like Sylar didn't expect him to.

When they went to bed later that night, Sylar was more cozy with Mohinder than usual. He seemed very pleased with himself, as if he was sure that between this night and the one before, he had quashed Mohinder's rebelliousness completely. Mohinder waited for him to fall asleep, then got up and got dressed again. The moon was full and filled the night with a surprising amount of light. He went out to the backyard and sat beside the flower he had discovered. It somehow soothed him. He brushed away the snow from the flower bed, looking for other growths; there weren't any. But there could be. Spring was right around the corner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Galanthus_nivalis.jpg) is the flower that Mohinder found: fragile-looking, but surprisingly hardy.
> 
> All of the books mentioned in this chapter actually exist. Scary, I know.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Sooo, this is going to be awkward, but I thought I'd add a note to let everyone know that I've branched out into original work under the pen name Sera Trevor. I have three original novels available for free! 
> 
> My first book, "Consorting with Dragons," is a fairy tale comedy about an impoverished young lord who ends up attracting the attention of both a powerful dragon and the king himself, much to the consternation of the royal court who are less than impressed with his uncouth manners. If you like my sense of humor, I think you'll really enjoy it! It's available in all formats at the Goodreads M/M Romance Group's site [here.](http://bit.ly/2noeIlF) (Scroll to the bottom for the links.)
> 
> My second book, "A Shadow on the Sun," is an epic fantasy about a prince forced into a political marriage and the loyal knight who is determined to save him. This book is heavy on the angst and political intrigue. You can find it on Amazon [here](http://amzn.to/2ntg1la), or at Smashwords [here.](http://bit.ly/2nod4k3)
> 
> My last book, "The Troll Whisperer," is a contemporary tale about an internet troll who inadvertently falls for one of his victims. It's a comedy with a lot of heart as the main character learns to change his trolly ways. You can find it on Amazon [here](http://amzn.to/2nYQPnv), or at Smashwords [here.](http://bit.ly/2o36ToF) The short story sequel, "The Pink Wedding," is available for $.99 [here](http://amzn.to/2orp2bP) and [here.](http://bit.ly/2na9lVo)
> 
> I also have a [website!](http://www.seratrevor.com) You can keep up with my releases by signing up for my newsletter [here.](http://www.seratrevor.com/newsletter.html)


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